


gets me dripping (like a honeycomb)

by FreshBrains



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Car Sex, Community: femslash_kink, Established Relationship, F/F, Lingerie, Not Wearing Underwear, Oral Sex, POV Orla, Possessive Behavior, Shopping, Sugar Mama Helen, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: “Helen Gansey,” Orla says, “do you have a personal lingerie shopper?”“No,” Helen says curtly. She draws a manicured hand down Orla’s sternum, thumb grazing her nipple, making Orla gasp. “I have a personal lingeriedesigner.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the Annual Femslash Kink Meme 2016 prompt: [Helen/Orla, lingerie and sugar mommy!Helen](https://femslash-kink.dreamwidth.org/19252.html?thread=2656308#cmt2656308).

“What’s in store for us today?” Helen scrolls through her iPhone with the efficient flick of her thumb, her other hand still tracing idle patterns onto the bare skin or Orla’s back. It’s one of Helen’s favorite questions, because there are always two equally viable answers—Orla’s plans for the afternoon, and what Orla _sees_ for the afternoon.

Orla stretches and sighs like a contented housecat. “Well, let’s see,” she murmurs, arching into Helen’s touch. “I was planning on taking a few calls, maybe running some errands.” The she presses her fingers to her temples and scrunches her brow like Spock. Helen snorts out a laugh. “But now I’m seeing…oh wow, what _is_ that? Is that…” She rolls over and looks up at Helen, smiling sweetly. “Victoria’s Secret?”

Helen arches one perfectly-formed brow. “Absolutely _not_. I can’t have you wearing some horrid pink and white polka-dot monstrosity. Not on my watch, _or_ my AmEx.” She yawns delicately, still scrolling through her phone. “I’ll take you to Mellie later. Does noon work for you?”

Mellie—the name ushers in a silky-soft feeling and the smell of blackboard chalk. “Helen Gansey,” Orla says, feeling her nipples harden into tight, aching nubs, “do you have a personal lingerie shopper?” Orla’s own underwear is a scrap-heap mix of frayed lace panties and structured, oatmeal-colored bras—the only kind a woman of Orla’s substantial cup size and minimal budget can obtain. And she and Helen haven’t spent enough intimate time in the light of day for her to scope out whatever fancy get-up Helen sports beneath her cashmere and linen.

“No,” Helen says curtly. She draws a manicured hand down Orla’s sternum, thumb grazing her nipple, making Orla gasp. “I have a personal lingerie _designer_.”

Orla wants to say something sexy, something funny, something _dirty_ , but when Helen squeezes her breast in one palm and sends an e-mail on her phone with her other hand, all she can do is close her eyes and moan.

After a late breakfast, an hour of outcalls from Helen’s study overlooking the courtyard of her apartment, and two changes of shoes, Orla finds herself in the passenger seat of Helen’s gleaming white Cadillac ATS, racing in the summer wind towards the city.

“Take your underwear off,” Helen says, face inscrutable, eyes covered with Versace sunglasses. “I want you bare and ready for measurements.” _And for anything else I want you for_ , Orla hears at the end, unsaid but loud.

Orla grins and hitches up the skirt of her magenta dress, peeling off her leopard-printed boy-shorts. “Bossy bitch,” she says, panties crumpled in her hand.

“You know it,” Helen says proudly, leaning over to kiss Orla’s cheek, never losing her sleek footing on the road.

Orla would normally toss her underwear into the back seat (she’s a seasoned pro), but then the silver hardware on Helen’s purse catches her eye.

Helen carries a large purse, as most important women do. However, unlike Orla’s Bloomie’s canvas tote bag she’s had since she was eleven, Helen’s purse is structured and pearly pink and glossy like a Wet ‘n Wild lipstick. When Orla asked her who designed it (“Kate Spade? Kim Kardashian?”), Helen glanced down at it tucked on the crook of her arm like she forgot it was there.

“Oh, I’m not sure. My mother bought it for me when she visited Lichtenstein last winter.” The comment was airy and polite, but not in the officious way of someone who wants to humble-brag about their lack of interest in expensive designer brands. Purse brands just don’t _matter_ to Helen Gansey. She’s got things to do and places to be.

Orla reaches over and slides her hand between Helen’s legs, rubbing at the inseam of her dark-wash jeans. Helen in jeans is a sight to behold, especially paired with a kitten-soft sweater. “Can I borrow a Chapstick, baby? I left mine at home.”

“Of course,” Helen says, handing Orla her bag, eyes keeping watch on the road ahead. “Use the vanilla verbena one. It’ll taste like ice cream.”

Orla hums in thanks and unzips the purse. She knows the contents intimately—at this point, the click of Helen’s wallet clasp sends a Pavlovian rush of warmth between Orla’s legs. She also knows that even Helen Gansey is not immune to the devastation of a large bag, and there’s a sizeable amount of pennies and bobby pins and protein bar crumbs clinging to the satin lining. Helen will look for something later, root around in the bag with a blind hand for a mirror or a pen, then she’ll freeze when she feels the silky material of Orla’s panties brush up against her hand.

They’re cheap and tacky, not particularly sexy, not something Helen ever noticed or commented on before, but they’re Orla’s. They’re something she’s had for years, a lived-in garment, clean but smelling thickly of her body after hundreds of washes and wears.

And now, much like the wearer herself, they belong to Helen Gansey.

Mellie doesn’t have a shop in the mall like Orla is expecting—where else do people buy clothes? Instead, she has a glossy little boutique situated between office buildings in the business district, all professional and discreet. Helen guides her inside with a hand at the small of her back, proprietary and warm, locking her car with her key fob with her other hand.

And, like most of their dates, Orla is naked in no time.

“I’d kill for skin like yours,” Helen mutters, head tilted like she’s appraising a vintage car or antique vase rather than the nude form of her girlfriend. “I’m so glad you don’t have any tattoos.” For once, her phone is tucked into the well of her purse, her attention fully on Orla.

Orla doesn’t resent it—how could she, when her own attention so often drifts? She’s tried to live in the present and it _blows_. Orla’s own mind is usually a swarm of past and future clashing and drifting together to form a narrative that’s much more interesting than what’s in front of her eyes. Helen may not be psychic, but she’s much the same—the current moment can only hold her focus for so long.

She sees herself five times over in the mirrors surrounding them, sees Helen’s quintupled look of blatant interest staring back at her.

“You sound like a serial killer,” Orla says, winking over her shoulder at Helen. “You going to lotion me up later?”

“Maybe,” Helen says with a smirk, shifting in her chair, “after I put you over my knee.”

From somewhere around Orla’s inner thigh, Mellie clears her throat. _Honey, if you think I’m going to be embarrassed, check yourself_ , Orla thinks, but just smiles down politely at the woman taking her measurements. “I think we’re about done here, Miss Gansey,” Mellie says, addressing Helen rather than Orla. “I’ll have my men deliver the pieces in no less than a month.” Orla has never been much of an empath, but she can hear the clipped disdain in Mellie’s voice. Orla knows she isn’t built like Helen—she’s all ass and thigh, her hips striped in stretch marks, her breasts heavy with dark nipples. Her hair is down from its normal high, knotted mess, falling in chestnut waves down her back to graze the curve of her ass, and the piercing on her clitoris glints in the harsh lighting of the measuring suite.

She’s not in the least bit uncomfortable, unless she counts the way her cunt pounds every time Helen looks at her and sucks in a deep, tight breath, eyes gone glassy.

“Thanks so much, Mellie,” Helen says, offering the small woman her AmEx without taking her eyes off Orla. “We can’t wait.”

They hardly make it into the dark, tinted-window confines of Helen’s car before Orla’s dress is pushed up around her waist and Helen’s perfect mouth is pressed against her cunt. Orla grips at the headrests, hands slipping against the leather, and shoves her booted foot up against the seat in front of her, arching into Helen’s face.

“I’m normally patient,” Helen says almost absently between sucking kisses to Orla’s thighs. Her hands firmly spread Orla’s thighs, positioning her just the way she likes. “I appreciate time spent on good work. But _god_ , I can’t wait to see you in the pieces I chose.” She licks towards Orla’s cunt, taking in her taste and scent, lapping up what is _hers_. “Emerald green will be good. Rose silk. Pure white lace, on your skin?” She draws a pointed tongue along Orla’s clit, making her shudder. “Perfection.”

“I’ll wear them all the time,” Orla says, voice hitching with each word. “Under everything. It’ll be like our own little secret.” They have a lot of little secrets, like when Orla wears the black jeweled plug Helen bought her under her jeans or how she’ll sit at Helen’s feet for hours until she can eat Helen out _just_ the way she prefers. Their relationship itself isn’t a secret (Helen craves transparency; Orla just doesn’t _care_ ), but their little pleasures are.

Helen grins and _bites_ down on Orla’s thigh, two fingers slipping onto Orla’s cunt. “I’d say you’re priceless,” she says, curling her fingers towards Orla’s G-spot, “but I’m not one for sentiment.”

“Duly noted,” Orla groans. “Now _fuck_ me, honey, c’mon.”

Helen crawls up the length of Orla’s body, hand still pressed between her thighs. She yanks down the V-neck of Orla’s dress until her breasts spill out; her mouth is hot and her teeth are sharp when she nips at the curve of each breast. “When we get back to Henrietta,” she says, cool and casual, “we’re going to your place. Then we’re throwing out every single piece of lingerie you own. Right in the trash, Orla Sargent, with no arguments.”

Orla _wants_ to argue, of course—waste like that simply isn’t a done thing at 300 Fox Way. Her bras would be stitched into crop tops for Blue and her lace panties would be use to strain herbs for Persephone’s tonics before they’d end up in the trash. But Helen’s mouth is turning her mind into mush, so she just arches into her touch and bears down on Helen’s fingers inside of her.

“And until your new lingerie comes, you won’t be wearing any underwear,” Helen says, and then smiles, like she’s proud of this idea. “And you’ll do this because I want you to, darling.” She draws her fingers out of Orla’s cunt before sliding them back in, firm and honey-warm, thumb grazing Orla’s clit. “Are we understood?”

“Oh, you bossy _bitch_ ,” Orla gasps, tugging Helen up for a messy, tooth-clashing kiss. “We are most _definitely_ understood.” She comes, hard and heady and aching, hand slapping at the window, her sweaty hair falling into their kiss.

Helen is grinding against her thigh, getting herself off quickly and efficiently. She’ll have a good night later—Orla will thank her for the gifts on her knees or on her back in bed, getting Helen off in any creative way they choose. “Good girl,” Helen murmurs, body going stiff as she comes, Orla’s arms holding her tight.

“That was almost sentimental,” Orla whispers, tucking Helen’s hair behind her ear, letting the other woman go lax in her arms.

“Sue me,” Helen says tartly, and they both shake with silent laughter, refusing to show each other how happy they really are.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Sugar Daddy" from the musical _Hedwig and the Angry Inch_.


End file.
